My Life as a Joke Page 3

  It’s time to dissect frogs!

  This Is a First

  Ms. Miller has to tell Matt, Umberto, and me to stop playing with our dead frogs three times before she marches over wearing her mad-teacher face. I have no excuse except for the fact that a lot of kids are freaking out at their dead amphibian and it seems such a waste not to take advantage of it.

  Matt excuses himself to go to the restroom. When he comes back a few minutes later, I can see that he wasn’t in the boys’ room at all, but pilfering through the donation box instead. He holds up outfits a few of the dolls were wearing just minutes ago. Before you can say “Presto, chango!” we’re dancing our frogs along the table in their new clothes. (I especially like the small fedora on Umberto’s frog.)

  “BOYS!” Ms. Miller is not amused.

  We disrobe the frogs, but not until Carly digs out her phone and snaps a quick photo.

  Ms. Miller runs through the dissection process step-by-step, asking us fifty million times if we have any questions. The scalpel is totally cool, and I can’t wait for her to finish with the instructions so we can begin.

  When she tells us to pick a partner, Matt and Umberto are already sitting together, so I pair up with Carly.

  “You can really smell the formaldehyde,” Carly says. “I’m glad Ms. Miller opened the windows.” She gives my arm a nudge and tells me to stop poking the poor frog.

  “His name is Gerald,” I tell her. “He’s from a large family in the Everglades.”

  Ms. Miller finally gives us the go-ahead to start dissecting. As much as I’d like to make the first incision, I decide to be a gentleman and let Carly do it—mostly because she beats me to the scalpel.

  “I didn’t think we’d be dissecting till next year,” Carly says. “This is great.”

  As I watch Carly cut into the frog’s abdomen, I suddenly get a whiff of the formaldehyde she’s been talking about. I hold on to the corner of the table to catch my breath.

  “Are you okay?” Carly asks, barely looking up.

  I nod yes but feel my legs start to tremble. Maybe my problem is that I’m watching someone dissect instead of doing it myself. “Hey, how about giving me a turn?”

  Carly hands over the scalpel, and I move in close to Gerald.

  “You seem a little woozy,” Carly says. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “I’ve GOT this.” Why is Carly treating me like a baby? I shoot her a look of annoyance, but when I turn back to the bench, my hand hits the tray hard and suddenly Gerald is airborne.

  I shout “NO!” as I watch the frog sail across the classroom, almost in slow motion. Matt and Umberto jump off their stools as Gerald glides above their heads.

  “Incoming!” Matt yells.

  In a split second, the class goes from quiet to pandemonium. Ms. Miller walks down the aisle, demanding to know what’s going on. Just as Maria points to the flying amphibian, Ms. Miller finds out for herself when the frog comes in for a landing. On her blouse.

  Anyone will tell you Ms. Miller is the most no-nonsense teacher at the school. So when she starts doing a rabid version of the chicken dance, the entire class breaks into laughter. With all that hopping around, I watch in horror as the frog slides down her neckline and INTO Ms. Miller’s blouse.

  “Class! Stop laughing!” Ms. Miller shrieks, clawing at her shirt.

  I look down at the empty tray in front of me. How did this happen? A waft of the formaldehyde hits me, and before I realize what’s going on, I drop to the floor.

  The next thing I remember is crawling into a sitting position.

  A still not-happy Ms. Miller waits nearby, asking if I’m okay.

  I shake my head to rearrange the cobwebs. “I’ve never fainted before.”

  She slowly helps me up. “Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

  I look around the room. The rest of the kids are all holding in their laughter.

  As usual, Carly tries to get everything back on track. “It was probably the smell—it’s pretty repulsive.”

  “Maybe Derek passed out from all the excitement,” Maria says. “Or maybe he was too afraid to dissect.” Maria gives me a smirk. That’s what I get for trying to scare her earlier with my dressed-up frog.

  “Derek, sit down for a few minutes.” Ms. Miller is firm, furiously rubbing her neck with a paper towel. “Everybody else, back to work.”

  Before he returns to his bench, Matt pulls me aside. “It was AWESOME! When you fainted, Ms. Miller bent down to see if you were okay, and the frog fell out of her shirt. Onto you!”

  “You were wearing it like a brooch!” Umberto adds.

  “That didn’t happen!” But when I look around the room at my classmates, their giggling tells me Matt and Umberto are telling the truth. Now I’M the one grabbing for the paper towels.

  I spend the rest of the class hiding behind Carly and poor Gerald. She’s about to give me a turn with the scalpel, but Ms. Miller tells me to sit this one out and take notes instead. I get the feeling she’s going to make me miserable for the rest of the school year.

  Why did I think this was the year I’d become one of the guys the other kids look up to—not the boy who faints at a frog while everyone else takes part in a grown-up science class.

  I hurry out of class as soon as it ends but Swifty and Joe are already at my locker. Joe picks a few dolls out of the collection box and holds them up in front of me.

  “Oh no! It’s a frog! I’m going to faint!” One by one, Joe sails the dolls into the air while Swifty fakes a girl’s scream and jumps up and down like Ms. Miller.

  All I want to do is go home. But before I do, I have to drag several boxes of DOLLS out to my dad’s car.

  Worst. Day. Ever.

  Surprise Guests

  At home, my mom is talking to a woman who looks familiar but I can’t remember how I know her. The woman follows around a toddler who’s exploring every inch of our kitchen. When I see Mrs. Mitchell come out of the bathroom, I realize the woman is her daughter who I met at Mr. Mitchell’s funeral a few months ago. The toddler must be Mrs. Mitchell’s granddaughter.

  Mrs. Mitchell gives me a hug and thanks me for taking in her trash barrels every Thursday. I tell her it’s no problem, because it isn’t. She scoops up the toddler just as the girl’s about to stick her finger into the electrical socket near the door. I take satisfaction in the fact that I’m not the most childish person in the room for a change.

  My mom peels a green apple as she talks. “I was just telling Mandy that we’d be happy to watch Olivia while she’s helping Mrs. Mitchell pack.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re moving,” I tell Mrs. Mitchell for the twentieth time this month.

  “The house is too big for one person,” she says. “And it makes more sense for me to move to Calabasas to be closer to Mandy and Olivia.”

  The only thing I know about Calabasas is that it’s a big horse town. Mrs. Mitchell seems a bit old to take up riding but I guess there’s a first time for everything. I’m in the middle of visualizing Mrs. Mitchell on a stallion, lassoing cattle, but am cut short by Olivia grabbing my cheeks. I quietly remove her hands and tell her I’m not made of Play-Doh.

  Mrs. Mitchell flips through a stack of photo albums she must’ve brought with her. “Derek, come look at this.”

  I tear myself away from Olivia’s grabby hands and look at the photo Mrs. Mitchell is pointing to. “Is that me?” I ask.

  My mom looks over Mrs. Mitchell’s shoulder and laughs. “I remember that day. You were covered in mud from head to toe and didn’t want to change.”

  “You had to chase him up and down the street,” Mrs. Mitchell adds. “Look at this one too.”

  She points to yet another photo of me as a toddler. If I’d known this afternoon was going to be a trip down Derek-as-a-Baby Lane, I would’ve stayed in school and fainted again.

  Mrs. Mitchell points to a photo of her and Mr. Mitchell standing under an awning of the pinkest trees I’ve ever seen.


  “There’s nothing like the jacaranda trees in springtime,” Mandy says.

  “This was taken on Flower Street.” Mrs. Mitchell looks wistfully at the photograph. I’m sure she’s thinking about Mr. Mitchell more than the trees.

  My mother gives Mrs. Mitchell a gentle smile. “Flower Street—how appropriate.”

  “It’s poetic too,” Mrs. Mitchell continues. “This was taken where Flower Street turns into Hope.”

  Mandy gives her mom a smile that looks a little sad, then tells Olivia they have to go.

  “Olivia likes you,” my mom tells me later. “You’ll make a great babysitter.”

  I was about to complain that my mom said WE were going to watch Olivia, not me alone, when I suddenly realize that neither Bodi nor Frank is in the kitchen. Mom says she wasn’t sure how Olivia would interact with animals, so she put them in her office before they came over. I go next door to retrieve them and get us all a snack.

  There have been a lot of changes in our neighborhood lately; in the past two months, four different people on the block have moved. I can understand Mrs. Mitchell wants to be closer to her daughter and granddaughter, but I also can’t imagine anyone living in that beige stucco house but her.

  As I get Frank and Bodi, I decide not to tell my mom about fainting in science class today. She’ll just ask fifty million questions and want to “observe” me all night when the only thing wounded is my pride. Besides, I’ve got a monkey and a dog—if they can’t make you feel better, nothing can.

  As I peel a banana for Frank, I realize he’s making less noise than usual and wonder if he’s already gotten into trouble. But he’s lying on the rug next to Bodi—a real Christmas card picture—sucking on a pacifier. Between the diapers and the pacifier and the way he’s cuddled next to Bodi, Frank could almost pass for a human baby. (Okay, a HAIRY human baby.) He fights me a little but finally surrenders the pacifier for a piece of banana. I know how possessive babies are with their things, so I walk over to Mrs. Mitchell’s to bring the pacifier back.

  When Olivia sees it, her eyes light up like Santa Claus is the new paperboy.

  “We’ve been looking everywhere for that!” Mandy says. “Thanks so much for returning it.”

  I dangle the pacifier in front of Olivia, who tries desperately to grab it. “Frank was using it,” I tell Olivia’s mom. “I think he likes the pacifier as much as Olivia does.”

  She asks me who Frank is.

  “Our capuchin monkey.”

  No one in the history of kids has ever cried louder than Olivia when her mother yanks the pacifier away just as she’s about to pop it into her mouth.

  “I rinsed it!” I say. “With soap!”

  Olivia is now in a full-blown temper tantrum, complete with screaming, kicking, and tears.

  “Thanks for bringing this back,” her mom says, shoving the pacifier into her pocket.

  She hastily closes the front door, but even ten doors can’t stop the sound of all that crying.

  A Special Doll

  My parents spend most of the dinner conversation trying to explain why Olivia’s mom wouldn’t want Olivia sucking on the same pacifier as a monkey even though I kind of sterilized it. I guess it’s like peeing in the shower; you’re either someone who’s comfortable doing it or you’re not—and no amount of explaining can change your mind.

  After dinner, Mom forces me to go through the notebook with my vocabulary words. She reviews the sentences and laughs at several of my drawings. Because she’s being nice, I admit how embarrassed I was at school when I had to read out loud in front of the class. She doesn’t try to make it better by pretending it was fine, just wrinkles her nose as if she understands how uncomfortable it must have been. Her support doesn’t make that humiliating moment sting any less, but it does make me feel like maybe next time will be better. She also asks to see the comic strip I’ve been working on about a boy and his dog. She gives me some feedback about those drawings too.

  Mom says she’ll gladly give me a ride to Santa Monica tomorrow afternoon to drop off the doll donations. It’s been several weeks and the kids in our school really came through. I’ve now got five giant cardboard boxes overflowing with dolls for the shelter. Tall, skinny ones in fashionable clothes, old-fashioned baby dolls, dolls that talk—a little girl’s dream come true. When one of the boxed dolls keeps falling out of the pile, I toss it on the couch. If Olivia’s going to be at our house later, maybe she’ll want to play with the doll while she’s here.

  I’m hoping my mother’s going to be the head babysitter with Olivia, but it turns out she and Dad have a meeting with their accountant, so I guide Olivia over to the shelf with the DVDs and hope she picks out a good one. Even though Toy Story is older than I am, it’s a classic and I don’t complain when that’s the one she chooses. I take the doll out of its box and try to make it sing along with the toys on TV, but Olivia pushes it out of the way as if this doll can’t possibly compete with Buzz and Woody.

  When Mrs. Mitchell and her daughter come back before the movie’s finished, Olivia doesn’t have to whine to get them to stay; they both take a seat and watch the end of the movie with us. Mrs. Mitchell sneaks me a little bag she picked up at the tiny chocolate shop downtown. Have I mentioned that I’m going to miss Mrs. Mitchell when she moves?

  After the movie, I try one more time to get Olivia interested in the doll, but she brushes it away again. Her mom, however, takes a real interest.

  “It’s Baby Karen! I used to have her when I was little.” she says. “This must be forty years old. I loved this doll!”

  I explain how I’m not in the habit of collecting dolls and tell her about the committee I joined.

  She gently sits the doll back on the couch while Olivia plays with the box. “I’m surprised someone donated her. I bet she’s worth quite a few dollars by now.”

  I thank Mrs. Mitchell again for the candy and let Olivia pet Bodi. (Mom wisely put Frank’s cage back in her office.) But as soon as they leave, I sprint to my dad’s laptop. I do a quick search on eBay and am dumbfounded to discover three other Baby Karen dolls—all selling for over a hundred dollars! This doll doesn’t seem that special but obviously the dozen people in an online bidding war feel differently.

  When my dad and I load the boxes of donations into Mom’s car for the drive to Santa Monica the next morning, I “forget” to put Baby Karen back in the box and quietly hide her on the top shelf of my closet.

  Ka-ching!

  Matt Weighs In

  Matt agrees one thousand percent that Baby Karen belongs with us and not with the kids at the shelter. We even christen her Baby Goldmine.

  “You already collected—what?—fifty dolls?” he asks.

  I tell him sixty-two.

  “That’s PLENTY! It’s more than enough for those kids to play with.”

  “Don’t forget about the rest of the toys,” I say. “The committee collected books, action figures, DVDs, and video games.”

  “How’d you get stuck with dolls?” Matt asks.

  “I was late for the meeting.”

  “See!” he says as if that proves his point. “Now you HAVE to keep the doll.”

  His logic makes zero sense, but his zeal is contagious.

  “Are you going to tell Carly?” Matt asks.

  Telling Carly is pretty much the gauge for how guilty we feel. And as much as I’ve justified keeping Baby Goldmine, telling Carly seems like asking for trouble. I tell him no.

  “What are you going to do with the money once you sell the doll?” he asks.

  I know Matt really means what are WE going to do with the money, but I tell him it’s too soon to decide. On the one hand, the new Derek would find something mature and responsible to do with all that money—like maybe donate it to the children’s shelter where it belongs. On the other hand, the old Derek will probably think of something great involving cheeseburgers, s’mores, pizza, and skateboarding—hopefully, all at the same time.

  I’m so excited
by the possibility of wealth burning a hole in my pocket that I don’t even care when Maria and Nancy make fun of me again for fainting. It might’ve been a big deal before, but today I’ve got bigger fish to fry.

  Look at All These Toys!

  I never read the pamphlets that were handed out at the last meeting—surprise, surprise—but from overhearing a few people in the cafeteria today, the woman with the movie-star shoes is a big-shot fund-raiser named Debbie McManus, who works all over the city raising money for good causes. The woman next to me at the snack table says the shelter is lucky to have her. I’m not sure if these comments make me more or less afraid of Ms. McManus.

  When she finally hobbles over on her escalator shoes, I’m not sure what to say. “I never knew there were this many homeless kids in the city” is the best I can come up with.

  “Be glad you’re not one of them.” Ms. McManus points to my chest with her bright pink fingernails. “We have to be grateful for our good fortune every day.”

  I know she’s right but she’s also scaring me, so I drift over to two guys standing by a table of DVDs. They don’t see me standing behind them and whisper like they’re part of a government conspiracy. “Nobody would miss a few of these movies,” one says.

  The other one nods. “There are plenty of doubles here that would definitely not be missed.”

  I keep my eye on them to see if they pocket some of the DVDs. If they do, should I tell Ms. McManus? I suppose it’s normal to think about lifting a few of the doubles; I mean, is it asking too much to be compensated for our time? After all, I “forgot” Baby Goldmine at my house. Maybe I’m just as bad as these guys are. Luckily, they meander over to the coffee table in the corner without taking anything.